I drape it over her lap,
tucking a corner by her hip.
She strokes his chin. “Eh. With eyes like that? He don’t even gotta sing.”
I laugh—“And Andrew wants to punch his face off every time he hears him now.
“Which makes this real special.”
A teenage girl snickers from the floor,
head down at her phone.
Paola sips her drink, grinning over the rim.
“Oh, you’re an instigator. You’ll do just fine.”
Next out of the bag's a record sleeve, old as hell. “This one’s yours,” I tell Paola, holding it up. “Dean Martin. Vintage press.That’s Amorewas my dad’s thing. Used to sing it in the kitchen like it was his damn anthem.” I hand it off. “Sound’s warmer on vinyl. Trust me. It makes you feel stuff.”
Paola runs her hand across the sleeve.
“You walk in with Dean?
“You’re family. You eat first.”
Then she’s on her feet.
“This one’s goin’ on now.”
Aunt Lisa folds her arms,
gives me the once-over.
“No pie? No flowers?
“What, you tryna show off?”
“Please,”I say. “That’s what you bring when you don’t wanna be somewhere. And flowers aren’t my thing. I got abandonment issues.”
I pull out a handful of candy bars,
toss one her way.
“5th Avenues. Better than coke. Slightly cheaper. My one-a-day vice.” I flick one toward the teenager. “Catch, kid.”
She snatches it mid-scroll,
finally glancing up from her screen.
Aunt Lisa squints at the wrapper.
“Jesus. What are you, eighty?”
“Eighty, thriving, and still bringin’ better gifts than a half-assed pie.”
Paola chokes on a sip?—
“Jesus. You’re somethin’.”
